


Then, Somehow, It Gets Worse

by JaxMan



Series: The Sheppard [1]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22832212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaxMan/pseuds/JaxMan
Summary: Hell is more like Earth than you think. And that fucking sucks.Note: I'm planning on giving this one final update sometime in the future. This will have the rest of the story as far as I've envisioned it, including the final chapter or so.
Series: The Sheppard [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1649785
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. The Path of the Rightious Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this is Hell, huh? Seems pretty normal to me.

Vox takes long strides to his next meeting. I try to keep up, but he's got the height advantage. The lights of Pentagram City shine through the bulletproof windows of Voxcast Inc, like a parody of the stars on Earth.

["I'm taking a big risk here, Pumpkin."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OBQE_TNI7zw&)

There's one thing you should know about Vox.

"My name's-"

He's an asshole.

"Sure, buddy. Anyway, your performance lately has been, heh, less than stellar."

I mean, yeah, it's Hell, everyone's an asshole.

"I'm sor-"

But Vox? He's different.

"Aht, aht aht. No interruptions. I want you to understand how important this is, kiddo."

The second thing you should know?

"Yes, sir."

Your success at Voxcast depends entirely on how much you remind him of himself.

"Atta boy. Now repeat that back to me."

Not his actual self, his _idealized_ version of himself.

"One coffee with a shot of Kentucky Reserve, one level spoonful of non-dairy creamer, and a sprinkle of Colombian cocaine on top."

Lucky me, with a screen for a face, just like him. So I get to be his special little servant. 

"I said a _pinch_ , not a sprinkle! Are you fucking paying attention?"

I get him drinks, organize his notes, and escort high-class prostitutes to and from his office. And I say "Sir" a lot. Lucky fucking me.

"Yes, sir. Sorry sir. One pinch of Colombian cocaine."

I try not to let the images on my screen wander. Just static, nothing that betrays my real opinions. No bottles, no porn, and absolutely no nooses. Pisses Katie Killjoy right off. As he opens the thick, mahogany door to the conference hall, he turns to me one last time, sneering like the smug asshole he is.

"Good, good. Oh, yeah, one more thing. As much as I enjoy the thought of your dead body swinging from a ceiling fan, you might want to turn that screen off."

Ah, shit. The window's reflection only confirms it, an image of a hanged, screen-headed man swinging across my face.

Dumbshit doesn't realize that it's not me on that rope. It's him.

...

[Two in the morning, end of shift.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wiUYFZXy_zc&)

The walk back to my apartment is the same as ever. Shitty, dangerous, boring. Broken bottles and used needles crunch under my feet as I walk, barrel fires lighting the path home. Shadows twist and whisper to one another, calling dibs on passers-by, but I'm not worried. The muggers know me, they've all held me up, they know I ain't got shit. Sometimes I'll get shot, stabbed, or beaten, but I always regenerate lost or broken parts. That's how it is here, I guess. Apparently, you can still die for real, but nobody's told me how. Not yet, anyway.

Even after the long walk, I look forward to spending the evening with the wife. That's, uh, what I call my computer, by the way. My girlfriend is the bottle under the desk, but they get along. I return home to find the black screen staring back at me like a mirror, a screen reflecting a screen, mine full of static noise. I try focusing on an image, something positive. That's what my therapist back on Earth said, all those months ago. Fat lot of good that did.

The static starts to give way to a hazy image. A peaceful summer day, with clouds and shit. That's positive, right? Yeah. Happy little fucking clouds. I power up my only friend, and pull the bottle from her hiding spot. The harsh liquid passes through my screen like nothing's there, something I still haven't gotten used to. Still tastes like jet fuel, though. Some things never change.

The early morning hours were spent mindlessly surfing Hellnet, watching porn, and getting as blasted as possible. One good thing about Hell? Cheap booze. Not good booze, but cheap. Oh, well. The good stuff would be wasted on my palate, anyway. And it's still better than my Hellnet connection, always fucking going out when I'm in the middle of a video. This place truly is absent of God's light.

As the hellish sun begins to cast red beams through my apartment, I stumble off to bed in a drunken haze. No tears, too tired for that shit. If Vox is still awake, he's living it up with some hookers who charge more than my yearly salary. That's just how it is, how it's been since I got here, how it's always gonna be.

And I thought Earth was a shithole.

...

_[Shining, squarish towers thrust into a gray, gritty sky.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-u70hXTJqgM)  
_

_The intoxicating smell of greasy food assaults your nostrils, inviting you to stop into any of the hole-in-the-wall restaurants that line the streets._

_Waves lap at the shore, just white noise in the background. The cacophony of the city almost drowns them out, but never completely._

_In a distant alley, some crackhead shouts incoherent profanities. At whom, about what, Who can say?_

_Trash lines the empty sidewalks, like confetti left over from some some profane celebration of waste and filth.*_

_Corporate headquarters rise above the concrete blocks, glowing temples to the true American god._

_The morning fog wets your face, and you blink from the cold._

_Were you supposed to be somewhere? Your aching joints and heavy eyelids tell you to go home, but where is 'home?'_

_You live in this city, but it's not your home._

_A freezing wind forces you to pull up your hood as you walk. Where are you going?_

_And what will you do when you get there?_

...

[I wake up at 3:00pm, an hour before my shift.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IDZkdkPHQ00)

Think about staying in bed with the empty beer cans, but I can't. Gotta pay rent. Force myself into the shower, and stand under the tepid trickle. Not much water pressure in the upper floors of the complex, thanks to shoddy construction. It's a miracle this shitheap hasn't fallen over yet. No, wait, what's the opposite of a miracle? It's that.

The walk to work is uneventful, save for another bum fight. Homelessness wouldn't be that bad, would it? Not like I can die here. Find a nice alley to call my own, sleep under my jacket, steal whatever I need. Maybe I can squat in some abandoned building, get a barrel fire going... Although, seeing that scaly demon take a shank to the eye socket doesn't paint a good picture of the homeless life. At least at Voxcast, you only get back-stabbed metaphorically. Yeah, let's stick to that.

Voxcast headquarters. Force a happy voice, try to look friendly. Get drinks, blow, and pills for the higher-ups. Try to keep my screen under control. Looking at my reflection, making sure it stays blank, it's becoming a habit. Think about the weekend, day after tomorrow. I get to stay inside, away from the fraudsters, rapists, and murderers that swarm the streets of Hell. Am I really as bad as they are? Was it the drinking that sent me here? Was I a heretic? Or was it, you know, the other thing? Or maybe God knew what nobody else understood, that I just wasn't good enough.

Small talk with the other employees is the closest I get to friendship here. Most of them are dicks, to be honest, but some are at least polite. I don't know any of their names and they don't know mine. Work's too busy to really change that, so strangers we remain. Now the security, they're a different story. Seems like they think they're better than the average workers, just because they have guns. I'd complain to them but, well, they have guns. Regenerating lost body parts isn't a valid excuse for missing work, apparently. As bad as security is, at least they're better than the execs, good God. I knew Hell had assholes, but it's like these people pride themselves on being as shitty to their workers as they can.

The walk home, surfing the Hellnet, it's all the same as ever. Just how it was when I got hired. And unless I can find a way out, that's how it'll be for eternity. Two more days until I can recharge alone with nothing but alcohol, shitposts, and porn. Hey, at least there's a backlog of Angel Dust flicks, just waiting for my attention. A couple hours of the usual later, and I can't keep my eyes(?) open. One last thought sticks in my brain, and burns like an ember.

I deserve this.

...

[ _A small bedroom, decorated with shadows and empty bottles. This was your room, before the fall._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=82vT3ij6-eA)

_The only sound is the distant lapping of waves, like the pulse of some ancient and forgotten god._

_You see the fog of your breath, feel the chill of the air against your face. You need someplace warm, someplace safe. You look to the bed._

_Tangled in your sheets, a nude figure gazes lovingly at you from behind heavy lidded eyes. A demon, skin the color of alabaster and covered in soft peach-fuzz._

_Two pairs of arms reach out for you, begging for your touch, but you refuse. Why is he here?_

_No, this isn't your room. Yours was warm, full of happy memories. Not a foreboding testament to your failures._

_Ice creeps over the windows, and the scant light gets even dimmer. Soon, you won't be able to see at all._

_Your eyes return to the demon. You've seen him before, fucking and getting fucked by all kinds of people. Why would he want you, a nobody?_

_But he's the only source of warmth you can see, and you're so tired of being cold. Slowly, nervously, you take a step toward him._

_As you climb into the mess of a bed, his arms surround you. Each one is as cold and hard as iron, and your struggling only makes them grip tighter._

_The darkness is suffocating you, crushing your very soul into nothingness. You need to escape, but it's futile._

_You try to scream, but your voice is just harsh static._

_And then, nothing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to LazBriar for getting me back into the writing mood. I have homework, you bastard!


	2. On the House

[Alright, I have to do _something._](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKi-EYnVky4)

Staying in my apartment all the time is poison. Comfortable, but poison nonetheless. Isolation made me lose my mind on Earth, but I'm not gonna let that happen here. Maybe everyone else is a murderer or something, but they're better than being alone, right? Gotta try to be normal. Gotta do some normal people things. What *do* normal people do, anyway? Clubs? Bars? Or do they just spend their time alone? I'll find out, I guess.

Friday night, time to see how the other side lives.

Walking down the crowded sidewalk in the Pentagram City Strip, beneath buildings of countless time periods, from concrete blocs, to art deco towers, to gothic revival. This is where the people are, so it must be good, right? Well, good for here, anyway. The neon lights are starting to strain my vision, advertising vices of every type. The smoke from cigarettes, the grills of street vendors, and smog of distant arson would make my eyes water, if I still had them. Still stings though. And the *noise,* good fucking God. I thought crowds on Earth were loud, but this is something else.

There aren't any building codes in Hell, and the lopsided towers surrounding the street prove it. Neon lit signs compete for attention, prostitutes lead johns and janes to cheap motels, and vending machines full of drugs, junk food, and/or weapons sit outside the storefronts and clubs. Gambling halls, bars, brothels catering to all kinds of clientele, all there on the Strip. All hankering for my hard-earned cash. No wonder everyone here is fucking poor. Except for the warlords, like that snake guy, bomber lady, and Vox 'n' friends. They make and take more than sad fucks like me will ever see. Fuck, now I'm bitter. Focus on other shit.

I haven't gotten out much, but I learned some things on the Hellnet. Don't trust the meat served by the street vendors. If you buy a gun from a vending machine, it'll jam like Bob Marley. The ladies and gents of the night have more bugs than a roadside mattress, and everyone will charge you double if they think you're new. Wanna run to the cops? Sorry, buddy. No cops, no laws, just taxes for Lucifer. What do you suppose he does with all that money, anyway? What could the ruler of Hell possibly buy, or does he just like to hoard it? Fuck if I know. Dammit, bitter again!

The wind sends chill through my body, and I struggle to pull up my hood. If my head weren't a fucking CRT monitor, it would've worked. Instead, I just hunch against the cold. Fuck it, next bar I see, I go in. No way I'm doing this sober.

There, a neon sign with green kanji lettering and a red bottle. It hangs off a graffiti-covered brick facade like a gangrenous limb, circuits sparking onto the sidewalk below. Yeah, that looks like a good, safe, and clean environment to get blasted. Ah, shit, I didn't think of how much this would cost. No bouncer, that's a good sign, right? I won't get kicked out for being a brokeass, at least. Alright, four months in Hell, and here's my first trip to the bar. Here we go.

[I opened the door, and immediately stepped into a puddle of blood. Fuck.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c2dbgxgQLxM)

It's a shithole, I'll tell you that. Vomit and blood from decades of bar fights stain the floor, walls, and somehow the ceiling. The music is just loud enough to drown out the drunken screams of the crowd, placing bets and shouting jeers and encouragement around a bloody fistfight. Posters for 'Spinal Evisceration,' 'The Seraph Slayers,' and 'Donnie and the Doomers' plaster the walls haphazardly, along with countless other acts. Opposite the entrance is the stage, currently used as an impromptu dance floor by- you guessed it- more drunks.

The air is about half cigarette smoke and one third weed. You could get high just breathing here, holy fuck. Multicolored spotlights slice through the haze, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. One is focused on the fight, the rest swing lazily over the floor, illuminating what they want, when they want. A cheer rises from the crowd as a fighter falls and gets his head stomped. Jesus Christ, that's gonna leave a stain.

Loud, filthy, and violent. Could be worse.

The beer-stained oaken bar is practically empty, save for a few passed-out demons. I guess the brawl's better entertainment than the booze. Maybe I can make a buck off it? Place a bet or two? Nah, the booze is a sure thing. I slap down some cash, two shots down the hatch. Hoo, boy, this might not be so bad after all. Couple more, and maybe I'll be good to g-

"Hey, Screenboy!" A woman's jeering voice cuts through the chaos.

Ah, shit, trouble. Coming here was a mistake. I should've sta-

"Ha! Ya look like a fuckin' newbie! Jus' roll in?" Her accent screams East Coast. Jersey? Bronx? Either way, she's not wrong, I'm greener than a frat boy after his tenth beer. Shit, I've got a target on my back, don't I? Why did I have to go out? Why couldn't I have-

"Ey, look at me when I'm fuckin' talkin' to ya, douchebag!" Gooooood dammit. She's getting closer. I should've brought a weapon.

A rough hand grasps my shoulder. I snap to look at the assailant, fully tense, ready to square up or run for it.

"Whoa, whadda freakshow you are."

Well, she's one to talk, with a six-limbed insectoid body covered in ripped clothing and a four-sleeved leather jacket, a mess of greasy black hair draped over her shoulders, and the sunken eyes of a predator looking for her next victim. And a dented aluminum baseball bat.

Instant boner. God dammit.

"Yo, fuckboy, ya deaf? Hablo ingles, muddafucka?" Her sharp-toothed grin was burning a hole in my brain, letting my thoughts leak out onto the floor and mix with the spilled beer. Shit, what do I say? What's the protocol?

"Uh, what's good?" Shit. That sounded better in my head.

"Ah, he speaks! Ya gotta name, Chuckles?" She leans on her bat, reeking of cigarettes and terrible choices.

"Yeah, uh, it's-"

"Screenboy! Ha! Nice name! You a gamblah, Screenboy?" She leaned in real close, never breaking eye contact. I could smell the alcohol on her breath, see my blank screen in her eyes, and imagine myself in her pants. You know, assuming she didn't murder me.

"Depends on the odds." Best line I could think of. Why, God, why do I have a thing for chicks who could kill me?

"Ya do shots with my friend, an' whoevah pukes, falls ovah, or passes out gotta pick up the tab. You in?" Two glazed eyes stare at me from under raised brows. Not gonna keep a lady waiting, right?

"Who's your friend?" Better know the competition, at least. She gestures to a goliath figure in the far corner, who's busy shotgunning a beer. Eight feet tall, easy. A worn, filthy tracksuit covers a mess of tattoos, scars, and piercings. Pale gray skin stretches over corded muscle, splitting to reveal a metal skull, battered from an afterlife of hardship and violence. Only his left eye remains, blue, bloodshot, and full of malice. He has teeth like an alligator, and I can practically smell his breath from here.

"My buddy, Utyug. Meanest sonovabitch in town. You in?" Holy shit, this is a bad idea. I can't be-

"Then he better have that money." One of these days, I really gotta stop thinking with my dick.

...

Utyug sits in the stool next to mine, smug as hell (heh). I try to keep a blank screen, no fear, no emotion. Shots cover the bar between us. Four-arms counts down, way to excited about this.

"GO!"

We each take a shot. He grimaces. Whadda fuckin' lightweight!

"GO!"

Another. I had two before the contest. Do I get, like, extra points?

"GO!"

Well, he was drinking, too. That evens it out, I guess.

"GO!"

Fourth shot, feelin' fine. Little tipsy. Utyug looks scary as ever, like he could pop my head like a grape.

"GO!"

This is going to take a while.

_Several shots later..._

"GO!"

He's starting to sway now, just a little bit. So am I.

"GO!"

Getting worse now, his eye's drifting around the room and misery stains his haggard face like puke stains this bar's walls.

"GO!"

I'm not in good shape, either, holding onto the bar for dear life, trying to keep my stomach from turning inside-out. Still, I've had, like, how many shots? Am I an alcoholic?

"GO!"

Oh, he's looking miserable, leaning on the bar, swaying as bad as me, one more shot and...

"GO!"

A solid *thud* reverberates around the room as the one-eyed giant collapses into a cursing heap, spilling vodka on the floor. Well, no reason to keep holding my stomach, so out it goes onto the floor next to me. Wait, am I on the ground? I don't even remember falling off the stool! Shit, did *I* just lose?

"Winner: UTYUG!" She's laughing her ass off, probably at the two hopeless drunks flailing on the ground in front of her. It's okay, I'd laugh too.

"Sorry, Screenboy. Ya got the cash, right?"

Oh, fuck. Cash. I have a bit, but not enough to pay for all... *that.* I have to tell her, I gotta set this right. I gotta...

"Aaahhhh, sssshhhhit. Nope!" Hardly eloquent, but it gets the point across.

She just shrugs with a 'no biggie' expression.

"A'ight, 's a drink 'n' dash."

Next thing I know, she's rushing two stumbling drunks out the door. We're totally banned for life, but it was worth it.

Is this friendship? I kinda like it. Hurts just a little less than the alternative.

...

_[The grimy convenience store seems like it's ready to collapse, shuddering violently in the cold winter gale.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zyngs8HlP2U) _

_Your old uniform fits just how you remember, far too tight. Have you been gaining weight? No, it probably shrunk in the wash. Yeah, that's it._

_The heavy snowfall outside piles against the door, threatening to burst in and suffocate you under its freezing mass. You have to barricade, it's the only way to be safe._

_Nobody else is there to help you, and the shelves are too heavy for one person. Will they even be able to find your body?_

_The glass begins to crack as the windows bulge inward. No, this can't be happening! You have to call someone, get help!_

_Your phone won't even turn on. The phone by the register is missing. No, there has to be one! You rush to the back room._

_Too late. A small avalanche bursts through the glass front of the building, sending shards of broken glass across the floor. You can't run. Your back is to the wall. You-_

_You're outside, looking up at a goliath building, an amalgamation of concrete and exposed steel shrouded in the night's long shadows._

_The air stings your skin, and you can hardly feel your face. Within the windows of the structure, fires glow an inviting orange, promising light and warmth._

_You want so desperately to feel it against your skin, but you can't move. Your feet are too heavy. Can you cut them off?_

_You thrash in place as the mammoth complex recedes into the distance. You're alone, now. Why did you do this?_

_Why did you do it?_


	3. In Which I Stab a Motherfucker With a Piece of my Own Goddamn Face

[I don't remember what happened after the bar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=srJYQESO34g). I don't remember where I got this dimebag of coke, or the stack of bills in my pocket, or the crack in my screen. And I most certainly don't remember how I got to this burned-out parking garage in the slums, surrounded by empties and roaches (the good kind). To be honest, I don't really care. 

The stench of liquor rises from my mouth, followed by an ungodly headache. My stomach twists on itself, like it's trying to escape and start a new life, free from my rampant alcohol abuse. I'm sorry, stomach, I promise this will be the last time. Until I do it again. The hangover's beating my skull like a drum solo, turning my brain into a pulpy mess. When I move, my joints snap, crackle, and pop in protest. I try to stand, but the leftover alcohol in my blood has other plans, and I fall on my screen. The moldy concrete tastes like vomit, or maybe that's just my mouth. The ground keeps moving, swimming around beneath me, making my nausea infinitely worse.

Christ, I need a beer.

"Holy fuck, cowboy. I thought you was dead." 

A groggy voice with a thick east coast accent. Shit, I know that woman. Who is- There! Half a case of beer! That'll help me remember. I can't claw one open fast enough, and it fizzes all over my hand and onto the filthy ground. Doesn't matter, I attack that shit like a kid on benadryl, letting the sour liquid pour down my throat. My body rejects it entirely, and I'm sick again on the pavement, losing whatever booze was left in my guts. Fuck it, I'm not wasting this beer. Gotta take it slow.

"Damn, buddy. You okay?" A mix of revulsion, concern, and horror shines in her voice. Oh, boy, is that a loaded question.

"Nah, I'm pretty fuckin' far from okay. You?"

"Ha. Same here."

I sip the rest of my beer in silence. Too hard to talk while trying not to dry heave. Finally, I crumple the empty can and add it to the pile. Do I still have a pack... yes, I do. No lighter, though. I turn to the woman (four-arms, from the bar! That's where I know her!), joint hanging from where my mouth should be.

"You got a light?" She just gives a dry laugh.

"What, ya tryna die again?" She sits on the hood of an ancient, rusted car, long since looted of anything valuable. Her slim, multi-armed frame hunches over in hungover misery, obscured by that leather jacket. Those golden, predatory eyes shine between dark circles and heavy lids, full of a contradictory mix of disgust, respect, and a touch of humor. Still, she produces a beaten plastic lighter and tosses it my way.

"I fuckin' wish. Thanks." Is that too much to share? Maybe she'll take it as irony or something. If I were sober, this conversation wouldn't be happening. My hand wavers as I light Mary Jane's herbal medicine, and I damn near burn myself. 

"That a joint? Pass it." She reaches out with a limp hand. Is this chick serious? Just askin' for weed, like I'm a charity for the perpetually fucked up? She must have read my mind, 'cause she answers before I even ask.

"Hey, ya lost that contest, right? An' I don't remember you payin for those shots..." A pair of arms cross as she raises an eyebrow. Dammit, she's right. I hand it over, along with her lighter.

"Alright, here you go, four-arms." 

"That's Nikki to you, buddy," she croaks. She takes a drag of her (my) joint, holding that smoke like a fuckin' champ.

"I have a name too, you know."

"Ah, yeah? What's ya name?" She finally exhales, sparing not even half a fuck for me or my name.

My name. The one I used up there. The one I used when I was just some living fuckup, known and respected by nobody. Even at Voxcast, nobody calls me by name. Maybe nobody knows it. No, I need another. That's what people do here, right?

"You called me Screenboy, at the bar. That works." I motion for her to pass it back, and she obliges.

"Ooh, lucky guess, huh? Got it right the first try."

I didn't have anything to say to that. Screenboy, huh? Could've picked a better one, like... uh... shit, I'm still drunk. I can't think of anything better. A few minutes pass, and so does the joint, back and forth, until it joins the other roaches on the floor.

"Hey Nikki, where's your friend?" The big guy isn't anywhere to be seen. 

"Utyug? Ah, he'll turn up. Always does."

"Not much of a talker, is he?"

"Not in English."

Another silence. This time, she breaks it.

"How long ya been here, Screenboy? Few weeks,?" It's an innocent question, but it still brings out a pang of guilt. A reminder that I'm in Hell, where people like me belong.

"Four months."

"Damn, you act newer than that! Get out much?" She's teasing, but jeez. 

"Nope."

"Heh. 'Not muchuva talker, is he'? Pot, meet kettle. You got anotha jont?" Another one? She think I'm made of weed?

"Sorry, last one."

"Shame. Ey, ya got a crack on ya screen."

"I noticed. It'll heal." I can see it, distorting my vision. Not my first cracked screen, won't be my last. Usually, the muggers around the apartment complex give me worse.

I guess there isn't much else to say. Utyug shows up a few minutes later, with a bottle of unlabeled booze and some fresh blood stains on his tracksuit. I don't want to know where he got either. 

"Ah, tu jesteś!" A wild grin spreads across Nikki's face. What language is that? I'll ask later, wouldn't remember it in this state anyway.

"Tak, oto jestem." He doesn't sound enthused, just annoyed and bored. One swig of suspicious alcohol later, and he's sitting on the trunk of the same car as Nikki. The crusty steel frame shakes with his arrival, sending little flakes of rust falling to the ground like hellish snowflakes. The skull-headed goliath sighs and takes another deep draft. His remaining eye is bloodshot, and just as miserable as it was last night. He doesn't look like he's slept in a week. I can relate to that.

The two converse in some other language I can't name. Neither seems fluent, but they manage. I'll have to ask about it sometime. The beer, the weed, the hangover, they're all making it pretty hard to think. Only one question crosses my mind.

"So, uh, what now?"

Nikki flicks her amber eyes back to me as a mischievous smile crosses her lips.

"Now we fuckin' party."

...

Saturday Night, and we're trashed again. Again? No, that implies we ever sobered up. So what did we do 'till nightfall? Fuck if I remember.

The important thing is that the clubs are open, and the bouncer can't turn you away if you sneak in. 

[A few bribes to some staff later, and here we are](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vbBH-GlQKOA).

The opening crowd of hellish freakshows smell of liquor, beer, and various kinds of smoke. The music is fucking deafening, multicolored lights bounce off a worn, tacky disco ball, and my shoes stick to the floor immediately. Does this place ever get cleaned? Who am I kidding, it's Hell, nobody cares if the dancefloor's clean. The dancefloor. Right. The floor on which people dance. People like me. Shit, I gotta dance.

There aren't and 'good' dancers here, only wasted ones. Bodies flail drunkenly, fighting, groping strangers, getting beaten by strangers' friends. Sinners pop ketamine, snort ungodly amounts of various powders, and chugging more booze than you'd believe. I'll fit in, right? I look to Utyug and Nikki, like they're gonna give me permission, or encouragement, or something, but they're wrapped up in the atmosphere, not paying attention to me. Kind of comforting, really. At least I won't embarrass myself in front of _them._ Maybe a few drinks, first? I'm almost starting to feel sober. 

A few shots, and I'm still nervous, like anyone here is sober enough to give a fuck about a shitty dancer. That's when the alcohol and me have a conversation. The alcohol says 'trust me, you can dance.' I say, 'no, I can't, and you can't make me.' It disagrees, and takes me to the floor. For the record, I still maintain that I was right, and that my dancing is shit.

"You're dancin's shit!" Nikki's laughing remark was barely audible over the music.

"Thanks, yours too!" And I really mean it. She dances like a coked-up punk, twitching and jerking around. It's kind of cool, really. Utyug's off somewhere, probably getting drunk(er), so it's just us. Just two sinners in a crowd, thrashing to the DJ's beat. It's awkward, clumsy, and pretty goddamn fun, honestly. I get why people do it so much.

...

A short while later, after flushing a few beers, I'm washing up and checking my screen in the grimy men's room mirror. No nooses, no bullets, no bridges. Golden. The door creaks open and a stranger steps in. Right away, this guy looks like trouble.

"Hey. Fuckboy." His voice is slurred. Alcohol? Wouldn't be a surprise.

He's an even scarier motherfucker than Utyug. Not because he's big, or muscular, or covered in gang tattoos, he isn't. He's skinny and pale, with three bloodshot, sunken eyes that twitch in their sockets and stare into space. Bruises and scars decorate the skin exposed by a torn shirt and loose jeans, and greasy black hair forms a matted curtain around his almost expressionless face. I've met people like him, even while alive, and they fucking terrify me. A big, muscled gangster with a gun? Stay away, mind your business, and you won't get shot. A mugger? Give up your wallet and you'll survive. This guy? No way to know what he wants, or what he's willing to do to get it. He could want drugs, money, or just to hear someone scream in agony, and you'd never know. Not until he tries to get it.

"'Sup with your face?"

His mouth splits into a deranged, yellow grin full of fangs and malice, but his eyes remain glazed and expressionless, barely focused on my screen. Fuck, what do I say?

"Talkin' to you, pal. Hey, maybe a joke for the deaf boy?"

His hand starts slipping behind him. He's reaching for something. I need to leave, now.

"What do you get, he-heh, when you cross a shitty little tv..."

He steps closer, and I'm backed up against the sinks. Shit, shit shit, where can I run?

"...With a claw tooth hammer?"

The next few seconds are a blur. My vision distorts and shatters as a metallic blur slams through my screen, and into my fucking head. Glass rains down into the sink, followed by my dripping blood. Not my first time getting beaten to 'death.' I can tough it out. I can swallow my pride again.

My arm explodes in pain as the hammer strikes my left shoulder. I fall to the ground, curled in a ball. The sooner it's over, the better. A savage kick to my back, and he starts chuckling. Just demented snorts at first, which grows into an ugly, shrieking laugh that sends chills through my skin and into the battered flesh beneath. 

Another kick, and I see the future ahead of me. Nothing but an eternity of pain and violation. 

Another kick. I'll never be respected. 

Another kick. This is my existence now. 

Another kick. I can't change anything. 

Another-

_No._

I grab his leg. Fuck him, and everyone like him. 

I pull him to the ground, and he lands on the grimy tile with a hard crack. What gives him the right?

He screams and spits incoherently, flailing in rage. I need a weapon.

The hammer swings dangerously close to my screen. My... screen.

I reach into the shattered remains of my 'face,' and grasp a jagged edge of glass. My weapon.

With a sharp pain and sickening crack, it comes free, and I grip it tightly in my bloodied fingers. I'm done with this guy's shit.

I roll on top of him, brandishing the shard, and jam it right into his central eye. The hammer smacks against my side, crushing ribs and bruising flesh as I keep stabbing into his face and neck with everything I have.

Is this what power's like? Feels good.

Eventually, he stops moving. Blood loss won't kill you in Hell, but it's not exactly good for your continued consciousness. Panting, I barely manage to stagger to my feet, clutching my left shoulder. Every wound screams in agony, my vision is distorted from a broken screen, and my legs shake beneath me. The mirror shows a bleeding, shivering mess with a jagged, black hole where my face used to be. I can barely walk, a makeshift knife remains clutched in my hand, and I'm an easy target for the next asshole who wants someone to kick around.

But I'm standing.

I stumble out the door, back into the chaos of the club, and slip the shard into my pocket. It's the only weapon I have right now. I just have to find Nikki and Utyug, then I'll be fine. They won't think less of me, all broken and battered, will they? 

"Holy shit, Screenboy! Fuck happen' ta you?" Nikki's voice rang out from the crowd, almost sounding concerned. Almost. I look to see her with the big guy, who couldn't give a fuck if he tried.

"Got into a fight."

"You win?"

"I'm still standing, aren't I?"

The rest of my cash, stolen and otherwise, is gonna stay in the club, getting me all the booze I need to dull the pain. Tomorrow night, it's back to the norm. Back to being broke, taking Vox's bullshit, living (and being) alone. But tonight, I have friends, money, and enough alcohol to kill my sorrows.

Tonight, we fucking party!

...

Sunday, 3-ish AM, we leave the club drunk, high, and completely worn out from the weekend. Too much adrenaline in our systems to sleep, we have a drunken conversation about philosophy, the meaning of life, that kind of shit. Well, Nikki and I do. Utyug just lights up a cig and stares into the city, inscrutable as ever. Look at them, not a fucking care in the world. No work, no worries, just freedom. Wait, I have work tomorrow! We agree to meet up later, same place, same time. 

Returning to my apartment is like coming back from a different world. Everything's the same, but it isn't. Am *I* different? How can a weekend change everything?

Well, it won't change my boss. Or my job. Or my landlord. But it sure as hell gives me a reason to keep going.

...

To do:

Tuesday, 3am: Meet Utyug + Nikkie for - ~~drinks.~~ \- theft + vandalism. Be back before - ~~sunrise~~ \- noon.

Tuesday, at work: - ~~ask about raise~~ \- apologize to Vox for asking about raise. Call him 'hard working,' stroke that ego.

Wednesday, after work: get some sleep, for God's sake.

Wednesday, noon -- 3pm: take out trash. Get food, instant rice? Ramen? Pick up vodka.

Thursday, 2:30am: meet N + U, get her 'party juice' recipe. Vodka, gin, + what else?

Thursday, 7am -- 3pm: drinking - ~~\+ sleep~~ \- 

Friday, after work: please just fucking sleep you dumbass.

Saturday, after work: Meet N + U in Derelict District, bring beer. Also look up directions to Derelict District. 

Rest of weekend: ???


	4. The End of the Beginning

_[Rain against the window, a pot of noodles on the stove, and soft music from the radio. Your small apartment is quiet tonight.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sHsPlEX5_eM)  
_

_The city lights shine through the shabby curtains, like a parody of starlight. You saw the stars, once, on a childhood camping trip before the recession. You stayed up for hours, just staring at them. Maybe you'll see them again, one day._

_The static from an old television fills the room with dim, shifting light, almost enough to see by. What were you just thinking about? It's hard to remember._

_Shadows stretch across the walls, taking the forms of people you've known, whispering sweet nothings into your mind._

_They tell you that you're powerless, that you could never be anything more than this. You were meant to be a failure, so why struggle against it?_

_It's intoxicating, the loss of agency and responsibility. It's calming in a way you can't explain. Suffering takes on a masochistic appeal, like a warm blanket made from barbed wire._

_You could bask in the misery for hours._

_How long have you been sitting there, on the edge of the bed? You have work to do, and Vox is going to be pissed if you don't show up on time._

_5:00 am, you're already an hour late! Panic floods your mind, driving out all rational thought. You can't pay rent without that job! You can't buy food! What about insurance? Medicine?_

_You can't stand up, no matter how hard you try. You're going to be fired if you don't show up._

_No, you can't lose this job. You have to stand, you have to-_

...

I wake up in a puddle of sweat. It's Saturday, early in the afternoon. No work today, no Vox, no fear of running late. 

That sneering, self-aggrandizing face leers from the back of my mind, laughing at my pathetic-

No. Not giving him any more thought. Try to be positive, maybe start by getting out of bed? Yeah, just like that. Maybe I'll reward myself with a cold drink. That's 'self care,' right? Gotta get into good shape for tonight.

Tonight, we visit the Derelict District.

...

[ _Saturday evening._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Q7IJOYxAMo)

A 'Hell-phone?' Ha, I get it!

"You didn't have to-"

"Ey, we gotta keep in contact somehow, right? No biggie."

Nikkie leans back against the brick wall, well and truely not giving a fuck. I've learned a lot about her and Utyug in the past week, during our late-night 'drinking' (minor crime) sessions. They've been drifting around Hell for years, just a Russian gangster and a New Jersey punk spreading their own brand of chaos. No boss, no home, just freedom. I can respect that.

"I mean- shit, how much did this cost?" This isn't just a cheap model, it's some full-featured shit. 

"Cost?" Her smug grin just grows. Not the 'better than you and you know it' grin that Vox has, but a 'yeah, I know I'm good' kind.

"Ha, yeah, I took you for the thieving type. No offense." She casually raises two hands, smile never faltering.

"I'd take offense if ya didn't, Screenboy."

The Derelict District used to be an industrial zone, I think. Rusted street signs poke out from the vegetation, still clinging to their purpose after all these years. Below us, overgrown urban ruins spread for miles, a literal urban jungle. Black vines, some of Hell's native flora, swallow whole buildings and bloom in the red sun. Their flowers are gigantic, technicolor things that smell of rotting flesh and snap closed around the carrion-eating birds that mistake them for a meal. The squatter camps, full of those brave and foolish demons who try to escape authority, glow with barrel-fires and scavenged electric lights. Gunshots in the middle distance ring out, warning all around of some turf war between rival camps. 

And near the district's border, three sinners stand on a rooftop, drinking cheap beer and basking in the sun's last rays.

Today is a good day.

Leaning on the railing of the abandoned factory rooftop, Utyug looks out over the abandoned cityscape, smoking a cig and looking mean as ever. The zone was abandoned after the vine infestation. Too expensive to maintain property, I guess. Even in Hell, no, _especially_ in Hell, money is king. Still, it's a nice view. In fact, it's the closest I've seen to nature since long before my death. The slim trees poking out from cracks in the asphalt, the feral beasts clinging to the shadows in hopes of a slow-moving meal, it all seems like some twisted version of Earth. I wonder, what would someone born in Hell think of Earth? Would our native world be as strange and hostile to them as this one is to us?

The crinkle of fast food wrappers snaps me out of the sentimental thoughts. McDevil's, the premier choice of demons with no taste in dining. Like me, for example. 

"Yo, gonna finish that?" She points to the DoubleDevil Supreme, currently dripping savory grease into my hands.

"Yep." I take a bite of the almost-forgotten burger. Rumor has it they put sawdust in the buns. Not because it's cheaper, just 'cause they just like being dicks.

"Man, that's fuckin' weird." Her expression turns to one of disturbed curiosity.

"Hm? What is?"

"The way it, like, goes into your fuckin' screen. I never get used to that shit." She faux-gags with a shudder, and I reply with a half-chuckle.

"Yeah, me either."

She didn't have anything to say about that, I guess. Starting to wonder what our plan is for tonight. We've stolen, vandalized, and jaywalked all over the city. Are we just standing around, eating shitty fast food today? Not that I mind. Compared to the usual routine, it's paradise. Nikkie breaks the silence with an atom bomb.

"So. Ya wanna get back at that boss a' yours?"

Oh, shit. I hate Vox as much as the next unpaid nobody, but to double-cross him? I'm not fucking crazy.

"Nothin' risky, Screenboy. Doncha' worry 'bout that. He'll never even know we're to blame." Damn her confident half-grin, those eyes that could pierce into your soul, and that east-coast accent. I should say no, I really should, but my mind is made up already.

"Tell me more."

...

[ _Sunday night, the New Acadia Industrial Zone._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LEbL6Yzx13E)

A short drive from Pentagram City (Utyug's a good carjacker, who knew?) lies a miles-wide factory complex. The sky is shrouded in thick, black smog, turning even the brightest days into pitch darkness. The din of industry, hammering machines, and the tortured screams of unfortunate slaves ring out in the distance. The air is barely breathable here, but it gets even worse. Closer to the Zone, toxins in the air are the least of our worries, since even with gas masks, there simply isn't enough oxygen to breathe. It wouldn't be a true death, but you can't exactly walk out if you're unconscious, can you? Some say trespassers are taken to labor in the mammoth factories. After all, people go missing there all the time, who'd notice a few more?

The three of us creep up to the corroded chain link fence that separates New Acadia from the outside world, surveying the terrain, weighing the options. In the distance, a single gilded tower rises from the foul air like a monument to greed and inequality, the headquarters of the Gilden-Mammon corporation. That's not why we're here, though. Our target: an armored truck that delivers freshly-made electronics to Voxcast, Inc. And maybe there are some hard drugs on board, who knows? A lot of things come out of those factories.

"We got a plan, right?" Utyug just chuckles. Not one for conversation, that guy. Nikki continues:

"Course we do. Gotta get supplies, first."

"Like what?"

"Guns, ammo, something to stop the truck. Simple shit. As for the plan itself, first we gonna block the road."

She starts drawing in the dust. Some lines, dots, and squiggly shapes meant to convey tactical information. I assume.

"Then the truck stops, and we unload on the motherfuckers. Smog makes 'em good as blind, an' the driver won't be packin' a lotta heat. Easy-fuckin'-peasy."

"Wait, they won't? Why not?"

"Smart guy, askin' questions! See, normally, the stuff they're carryin' ain't high value. That means light security 'n' a real easy score."

"So, if the stuff is low value, why bother?" I'm not just doing this for fun. I need a piece of that - ~~ass~~ \- score!

"Oh, ya know, just for shits 'n' giggles! Though it'd be fun to rob a fuckin' armored truck!" Sarcasm. How lovely.

"I mean, it's a valid conce-"

"Aw, chill out! I'm just teasin'. There's gonna be a reeeal special delivery sometime, disguised as a regular haul. Not today, though."

Oh, boy. Waiting. Plenty more time to think about everything that can go wrong.

"Oh, uh, okay. How long...?" I don't even have to finish before she lets out a snicker.

"Oh, Screenboy, we ain't even close yet. But don't worry. It'll happen."

I'd be scared shitless if it weren't for her unshakeable confidence. A few more seconds of silence pass, and she turns her attention back to the smoggy distance. Should I say something? I could ask how she died, or is that too personal? Probably.

"So, you and Utyug. Are you, like, together?" That sounded... thirsty. I don't wanna sound thirsty.

"Nah. Just real good friends. Why, ya tryn'a hook up?" Her lips twitched into a wry smile. Ah, fuck, I _did_ sound thirsty.

"No, uh, just-"

"I don't think Utyug's into guys, if that's whatcha wonderin'." 

She leans in, and I can only imagine what's going across my screen.

"But lucky for you, I am."

I didn't go back to the apartment that night.

...

_Outside, a deep winter gale rattles the window panes. But that doesn't matter now._

_A fire roars in the ancient wood stove of your childhood home, filling the living room with a loving orange glow._

_The tattered wallpaper still clings to plaster, a tacky remnant of decades past. The furniture, the pictures on the walls, they haven't changed a bit._

_From the couch, a pair of grinning golden eyes stare at you. Four arms stretch across the cushions, one holding a cigarette, another reaching for your hand._

_You don't question why she's here, it doesn't matter. No confession of love or lustful quip breaks the near silence as you step toward her._

_One moment later, she holds you gently in a warm embrace. You can feel yourself sinking into the sofa, into her, but that's okay._

_You're safe here, for now._

_Suddenly, you're not in Nikkie's arms, but outside in the early spring chill. Maple leaves stir in the wind, little mementos of last fall on the empty sidewalk._

_A backpack hangs heavy from your shoulders as you stare at the red brick buildings that surround you. To your right, a patchy road twists through the urban mess._

_Everything is larger, somehow. The broken chain-link fences tower above you, the shabby houses seem like mansions, and the trees are as tall as skyscrapers._

_You know this place. Where are you?_

_You left this place. How could you?_

...

[ _Monday afternoon, in an abandoned factory in the derelict district, I wake up._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HnhuZ_p-dbQ)

Outside, far away, Hell's native birds screech and swoop at the squatter camps, only to be driven away by gunfire and angry shouts. Red sunlight casts a beam through a broken window, illuminating countless motes of dust. Rough brick walls and a wooden ceiling enclose an empty factory floor, full of rusted machines that smell of oil and mildew. In the corner, yesterday's clothing sits in a crumpled heap. And on a makeshift bed of cardboard, two sinners lay together under a tattered sheet.

Resting her head on my arm, Nikki groggily stares into my soul.

"That ya hometown?" The sleep hasn't left her voice yet, making her accent even harder to understand.

"What?"

"On ya screen, when you were sleepin'."

Wait, what? My screen does that? Shit, hope I didn't dream about-

"Ey, don' worry about it. Nothin' bad, just some old neighborhood."

She moves her head closer to my chest, cheek resting on my light gray skin. It's the best thing I've felt in years. Not just the sex, the feeling of not being alone. Someone wants to be around me! Maybe she even understands who I am, what I'm about! I guess she took my pause for reluctance, though.

"Bad memories?" Her speech was a little clearer, now.

"Nah, just where I grew up. Nothing special." Also, a reminder of the last time I was genuinely happy. Crazy how one person can bring that out, huh? Careful, don't get sentimental. People don't like that.

A few minutes of silence followed. Nothing to say, I guess. From the floor above, Utyug's heavy footsteps signal his awakening, followed by the muffled fizz of a freshly-opened beer. 

Far away gunfire cuts through the silence. Another turf war? Practically background noise at this point. Some other fuckups having a little squabble over burnt-out buildings. Let 'em fight. I wouldn't trade this moment for all the wreckage in Hell.

"So, I ain't tellin' ya to fuck off or nothin', but..."

'But.' That's never a good sign. Did I do something?

"Doncha' have, like, responsibilities 'n' shit? A job?" If I still had lips, I'd crack a smile as I looked back at her. I settled for a laugh.

"Responsibility's cool, but there's more things in life."

I stretch before continuing the line, sore from the makeshift bed. It's the second best feeling I've had this morning.

"...Like gettin' your dick rode all fuckin' night."

"Ha! I didn't take you for a poet," Nikkie chuckled, sitting upright. I'd never noticed how her red-purple skin caught the light. 

"I'm not. That was the wisdom of MC Ride." Another minute or so of quiet followed. The gunshots had stopped, replaced with victorious cheers. Good for them, whoever they are. I got up to find a beer, and Nikki lit up a cig.

She's right, though. Vox would be pissed that I'm late. He'd call me a 'do-nothing cuck,' or some ridiculous shit. But you know what? That doesn't bother me in the slightest. I have someone who cares about me. Someone who, at least, doesn't see me as a pay dispenser with a bad attitude. Sure, he's rich, but I'm better than him in every way that matters. Besides, after the robbery, I'll be just a little bit closer to him, money-wise. As I sip the frothy alcohol, everything seems okay. Not perfect, just okay. Best it's been in a while.

But seriously, I should get going. I need that job.

...

Shopping list:

-Magnesium sheets.

-Aluminum powder.

-A case of beer.

-Powdered iron oxide.

-Instant Ramen, beef flavor.

-A case of .44 magnum rounds.

-A case of .22 +P rounds.

-Welding gloves and mask, with UV protection.

-A couple grams of weed, cheap (not just stems).

-New work shirt. Stripes? Something in blue?


	5. In Which I Get Really Fucked Up at Work

Work. Well, at least I'm on time.

"Took your time, kiddo. Coffee, now. You know how I like it."

Vox is the same as ever, shoving his ego in my face at every opportunity. I wonder what he's compensating for? Emotional issues? Erectile dysfunction? Gotta keep _that_ off my screen! An insecure douchebag like him wouldn't take that joke kindly, and I need this job.

"Three shots this time. It's been a long fucking day of doing that thing you never do, what's it called? Oh yeah! Having a _real_ job."

But today isn't quite the same as ever. Today I have a secret. Something that could get me fired. Something I know that Vox doesn't!

"I just got that new bourbon, and I'm saving it for my appointment with Jynxxx Mayze. You know, the stripper? Ha, who am I kidding, of course you don't. Anyway, don't use it or you're a dead motherfucker."

I'm high as fuck right now.

"You got that down? You listening?"

"Yep!" Cheerful, friendly, and I barely even have to fake it. This is some good shit!

"Don't- ugh, don't just give me that blank screen, it's fucking creepy. Smile or something, fuck!"

I think up a smiling face, hoping it finds its way to my screen. Vox must see something, since he gives a disgusted shudder and motions me off.

Alright, Vox's coffee. The coffee meant for Vox. Coffee. Three shots of bourbon, not the good stuff. 

Already, my legs feel like they're going to give in, and it takes serious effort not to wobble around like the village drunk in some Irish novel. Jesus Christ, what is this stuff? I got it from Nikkie, but don't remember the name. If I'm caught, it's curtains for my position. Vox doesn't like employees under the influence. After all, how hard can a druggie work?

Now, to most people, it _might_ seem hypocritical for Vox to have cocaine in his coffee and still advocate for a drug free workplace...

I'm almost at Vox's office. It's only been a couple of minutes, but the high is just getting started. Nikkie described the effects when she gave my the little bag of pills, but I didn't (and still don't) know what she meant. "Loss of motor control" at first, that's simple enough. But when will I start "existing beyond time and space?" Shit, that sounds deep. And kinda cool. I wonder what it's...

[Oh...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2tVs_R8-WT0)

...

The screen-headed man stops in his tracks, distracted. He sees the world and himself in a new way, and understands. He is simply the universe looking through the eyes of a mortal. How could he not have seen this before? Overwhelmed by the sheer _scale_ of this revelation, he cannot move. He cannot speak. He can only do one thing.

He's got to text Nikki about this shit!

...

Nikki's ancient, battered hell-phone buzzes her awake. Shit, she dozed off? No wonder, the back of the beaten sedan (stolen by Utyug, the marvelous bastard) is more comfortable than a slab of cardboard. Thank fuck for regeneration, or her back woulda been destroyed a long time ago. She groggily digs the hummin' device from her pocket and tries to sit upright.

Ah, a text from Screenboy! What's he up to?

_*I AM ONE WITH THE UNIVERSE*_

Wait, what?

_*CONSCIOUSNESS IS A LIQUID FORM TAKING THE SHAPE OF THE MIND-VESSEL. SPACE IS AN ILLUSION. TIME DOES NOT EXIST.*_

Ah, shit. She told him to wait until she could coach him. Fuck's sake, why'd she even trust him to hold onto the stuff? Nikki fumbles with the tiny keyboard, ready to help.

_*just relax, lie down or smthn. itll be fine, promise :)*_

Nikki remembers her first time on Lucidium. Minutes, hours, they all melted away in a euphoric daze. So did her sense of logic, replaced with a deeper understanding of the universe. This ain't some party drug, it's special shit. The kind ya don't do alone!

A few minutes later, no response. Fuck it, he's probably lost in the stars right now. Then the phone buzzes again:

_*CANT LIE DOWN RN*_

What? He wasn't paralyzed or anything, right? Shit, did he take too much? She told him those were some high dose pills. Unless...

_*ur not at work are u?*_

_*WORK IS A TOOL MEANT TO LURE THOUGHT-FORMS INTO COMPLACENCY AND STRIP THEM OF MIND-ENERGY*_

Well, yeah. Didn't answer her question, though.

_*BUT YEAH IM AT WORK*_

God. Fuckin.' Dammit. She told him to take it at home. She told him to take just one. She told him to stay safe, and guess what? Moron gets high at work!

Well, she's all out of advice. She could try to coach him, but this is more than she bargained for. Way fuckin' more.

...

_*ok, what r u doing?*_

The rectangular form of light glows with information, an incomprehensibly massive stream of data. Millions of such devices exist on the planet, all connected just as neurons are in a brain. Could such a brain become a vessel for consciousness? What might it's thought be? Would it learn of love, or hate? A fascinating quandary for another time, perhaps.

_*u there?*_

Vox's office is the same cluttered mess as always, full of half-empty bottles of alcohol and pills. Such a man can only pretend to be satisfied with life. 'Screenboy,' as the young man calls himself, would almost pity him. Were he not an asshole, that is.

_*hey screenboy, u with me?*_

'Screenboy.' What an odd name. He had chosen it in a moment, never considering its implications. Why take a nickname based on a surface-level observation, a demeaning remark from a stranger? But had that stranger not become a friend? And in Hell, it is theorized that one's physical appearance is based on their deeds in life. Perhaps it's a more fitting name than one might assume.

But even existential awakenings cannot keep him from his job. He types a brief response to Nikki.

_*YES IM MAKIGN COFEE. IT HAS BORBON*_

What is he doing? What is the meaning of this visit to Vox's office? Is he just is he just roaming around in a drug frenzy of some kind? 

He returns the phone to his pocket, where it continues to buzz and vibrate with the ecstatic energies on the cosmos. Be happy, dear meta-organism of data. Then, Screenboy begins the simple task of readying one cup of coffee. First, the bourbon. Vox had requested the inexpensive bottle, though for him, 'inexpensive' is still more than most could afford. Which one looks the cheapest?

Truly, this would be a challenge.

...

Well, she told him. She told him not to mix it with anything. She told him not to take more than one. N' most importantly, she told him to wait until she could _fuckin' be there with him!_ Lucidium's gotta be done _carefully!_ N' to make matters worse, he ain't answering texts any more. Well, if he jumped out of a fucking window, or fucked up his brain (more), or got fired, it ain't her fault.

Finally, Nikki slips the phone back into her pocket. Fuck it. Maybe she'd scold him later, but for now, he can deal with this shit. Not her problem.

Nope. 

Not at all.

...

Vox is a simple man, and a humble one at that. He doesn't ask for much, just perfection. For example, coffee. Coffee to keep him awake for long hours of hard work, cocaine to give a little kick, and whiskey to keep him smiling. That's all he asked for. All he wants.

And this faceless fuck couldn't even manage that.

"So. Tell me, buddy, what's in this coffee?"

The '#1 Boss' mug he'd confiscated from some middle manager ( _he's_ the only '#1 Boss' in this company, God dammit!) was not full of coffee. 

"Bourbon, cocaine, and non-dairy creamer! And I didn't use the expensive stuff, just like you asked." Little creep sounds positively cheerful. He looks the part, too. His face-screen shows a smiling 'emoticon,' some shit kids use when even _talking_ is too much work. 

"And what did we forget, kiddo?" The dumb shit just tilts his head to the side, acting all confused. Idiot.

"Forget?"

"You forgot the _Goddamn coffee!_ " He slapped the kid right on the side of his stupid, boxy head. Must've been a solid hit, because Vox could've sworn he saw that screen glitch. Ha! What a lightweight.

But Vox isn't cruel. He sends the kid back, gives him another chance to get it right.

And boy, he had fucking better do so.

...

_That night, you stand on an infinite, mirror-like plane, nowhere to look but upward. Galaxies of light and fire swirl through the sky above, dancing in the aurora borealis._

_You know by instinct that you shouldn't be here, this place is too pure, to easily corrupted by your disgusting, rotten soul._

_But you cannot leave, not yet, not before seeing it all. Is this Heaven? How did you get here?  
_

_You gaze in awe, paralyzed by beauty._

_The stars drop lower, spiraling around you in a whirlpool of multicolored lights._

_You slowly begin to notice a warm glow in your soul, one you haven't experienced in years. It's small, hardly a spark, but it's there._

_You hope it never leaves._

...

A few days later, and it's almost time. God help me.

There's a knock on my apartment door. I've been dreading this moment for ages, hoping against all hope that it wouldn't happen. Maybe something would come up? Not, like, someone getting hurt, just a change of plans. Or something. Fuck, I don't know!

Maybe I can just not answer, pretend I'm not here? No, there's no avoiding the inevitable. I reach for the doorknob with a shaking hand. I pause and take a deep breath. This is it. I open the door.

"Hey, Screenboy!"

I've been cleaning all day. Well, some of the day. The rest was spent procrastinating, and it shows.

The mildew, the stains on the walls, the grungy ceiling tiles, and the single, flickering lamp in the corner stand out as much as ever. The cracks in the window pane conspire with the ratty curtains, trying to look as ugly as possible _just_ to spite me. The bedroom has no door, water drips in the the bathroom, and the place smells like beer and sadness. I cleaned up as many cans as I could, but they're all over the broken, saggy couch. And the floor. Shit, maybe I _do_ have a problem. The bed's neatly made, at least. Shows where my mind was, huh?

"Nice place." She looks it over approvingly. Huh. Well, if her standards are low enough for me- No, bad brain. Stop that.

I don't have time to self-deprecate before she flops onto the couch, ignoring the small cloud of dust from the cushions as she stretches out all six limbs.

"Better 'n most of the dumps I stay at. C'mere." Well, fuck, not gonna turn down an invitation.

You can imagine what happens next.

...

Not long after, we lie on the couch. The upstairs neighbors argue, volume rising by the word until they come to blows. Outside, an alarm's wailing melody is backed up by gunfire percussion, and screaming bystanders provide vocals. Cans and bottles still decorate most flat surfaces of my apartment, bugs the size of rats still scamper through the walls, and the lamp still flickers.

But it seems alright, now.

"So, tell me." Her voice is stern. Uh oh.

"Why'd ya take those pills at work?"

She doesn't sound mad, just disappointed. Besides, I thought *she* was the party animal here!

"You telling me to be responsible?" 

"Ey, I'm lookin' out for ya! Thought ya like that job!" I can't help but laugh. 

"You serious? I hate it! If I didn't need the cash, I'd be fucking gone." Wouldn't that be nice. No shitty coworkers, no asshole security, no Vox.

"'Need?'" She raises an eyebrow, gives a sly little smile. 

"Yeah, need. I can't live off nothing." She sits up and stretches.

"Ya don't _need_ cash, or a shitty apartment, or any of this." I try to avert my eyes as she stands up. Kind of a silly thing to do, since we were just, you know, fucking.

"Yeah, pretty sure I do. Getting into knife fights over a can of beans doesn't seem that appealing."

She just shrugs and stretches out before grabbing a sheet from my bed and bringing it back to the sofa. Fuck, when's the last time I cleaned that thing?

"Driftin' ain't that bad, Screenboy. Besides, you're good at takin' beatings. Fuck, 'member the club?"

Yeah, I do. I can still see that psycho's face, three eyes glaring at me above a manic grin. Must have showed up on my screen, judging by the look on her face.

"Yeesh, izzat what he looked like? Fuck that."

"Yeah. Fuck that." The room goes quiet for a minute. Awkward, don't want awkward. Make a joke?

"If I could, though, I would. Hell, maybe I'd put on a raincoat, invite Vox in, and play some Huey Louis and the News!"

She looks at me like I'd referenced a classic movie she'd somehow never seen. 

"...What?"

"Like in American Psycho?"

"Never seen it."

Shit, really?

"It's a classic! You've never seen it?" Before she can respond, I get off the couch and turn on the ancient monitor, waiting for the desktop to power up. You know, it's amazing how little security Voxcast has in their IT dept. She laughs (more of a brief exhale, really, but I'll take what I can get) as I search for a good torrent.

"A'ight. Let's watch this 'American Psycho.'"

And then we watch American Psycho.

...

The movie's alright, woulda been more shocking if Nikki weren't in Hell. Here, guy's like that 'Patrick' are a dime a dozen. The murders were pretty creative, though. Hm, droppin' a chainsaw. She ain't the type for mindless violence, but if she _was..._

His arm draped gently over her shoulder, she nestles a bit closer to his chest, feelin' his ribs on her cheek. Poor bastard must be livin' on a meal a day, and still thinks he's gettin' a good deal. Why suffer for scraps when he could have better while bein' free? Not like there's any cops around to stop him. 

It'd be nice, just laying there as the credits roll. His frame, skinny as it is, makes a good pillow. She normally prefers a guy or gal with more meat on their bones, but he makes up for it by not being a bloodthirsty psychopath. That's a pretty high bar in Hell, n' she's dated enough of _them_ , thank you.

Wait, 'date?' No, that ain't how it works here. This is just a hookup.

_Sure. Just a hookup._

Some errant line of thought enters Nikki's head, like a little voice from her subconscious mind. But yeah, they're a hookup. Sorry, subconscious, that's how things work here.

_Ya sure about that? Princess Charlie's got herself a girlfriend._

That's cause royals do whatever they want. If she was just some schmuck in Pentagram City, she'd get shredded. Besides, this guy's nothing special.

_If ya say so._

"So Screenboy. How was the trip?" She's genuinely curious, n' a little concerned. Not just trying to drown out emotions that'd been long suppressed by Hell's toxic culture. Nope, none of that.

Immediately, he tenses a bit. Ouch, that bad, huh? Well, she did tell him to wait...

"Well, it _started_ alright."

The grainy voice from his speakers carries just a touch of regret. He pauses for a moment, like he's thinkin' of what to say.

"I just... understood. I understood how the universe is connected. I understood how it all works, that we're not just individuals, but, like..."

"Yeah. Connected n' shit." Dangerous as it is (when misused), lucidium has a way of expandin' the mind. 

"But then, well, work. Getting slapped around by Vox killed the mood."

Shit. It got ruined for him, eh? She couldn't help but sigh n' hold him a little tighter.

"I'm sorry ya trip got all fucked up." She holds back an I-told-ya-so (even though she did tell him so).

"Thanks."

There's not much to say for a while after that. Sure, they talk about their day, things they miss about bein' alive, that kinda stuff, but nothin' deep. Before she knows it, it's almost sunrise. She could offer to stay the night (er, morning), but he got work tomorrow. N' since _she's_ gotta be the responsible one...

"A'ight, I got trouble to make."

They get dressed, make their awkward goodbyes (at least, his was awkward), but something feels off. Then, just as she's headin' out the door, it hits her like a .45 slug.

She's gotta say somethin.' Not just, 'see ya later,' she's gotta tell him... What? That she's in love, or something? No, that's bullshit. She's been in 'love,' this ain't that. She ain't head over heels, she just... appreciates him!

_'Appreciates,' huh? Nothin' else?_

Nope. Not at all.

_So, plannin' to coach him through his first trip? Just 'appreciation?'_

Yep.

_Stealin' a phone for him? Wasn't easy to get, ya know._

Anything for a _friend._

_A friend who ya been fuckin'._

That's called 'benefits.'

_Whatever. Just... say something. Something nice, maybe a compliment?_

Like what?

Uh, shit. Just think of something. Anything!*

...

As she closes the door, she pauses and turns back to me, like she wants to say something else. 

"You're, uh... the best hookup I've had in a while. Ya know that?"

I...

You know, that makes sense. 'Dating' isn't a thing here, so of course this is just casual sex. Obviously. How could it have been anything else?

Just a hookup. That's all.

Then she leaves.

And I'm just standing there.

[Like a fucking moron.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YCSqKkJHGcU)

...

The door shuts, n' Nikki's just standin' there.

Like a fuckin' moron.

 _Bitch, why'd ya say_ that?

It's a compliment! Ya said to say 'anything!'

 _Not_ that! _Now he thinks ya don't even_ like _him!_

She breaks outa that trance-bullshit, n' starts walkin' down the hall. He'll understand. Besides, if she didn't like him, why'd she be all over that dick?

_N' cuddle up to his chest. N' talk about his day. N' get all concerned about his bad trip._

...'Friends' things. 'Cept the cuddling, that's more of a 'benefits' thing.

_Yeah. Sure, Nikki._

Shit, what's she gonna do about this?

...

My grandpa always said that beer tastes better when you're sad. I wonder if that's why he was always drunk?

It doesn't, by the way. Still tastes like Red Dog. The beer, not, like, you know...

Fuck it. I'm drunk as shit. Remember this morning, when I was high? Seeing the universe and shit? I miss that. I miss being important. Fuck happy thoughts, and fuck me. I should've known better than to-

No, fuck self-pity. I did this to myself. I deserve this. That's humility, right? Finding your flaws and... you know, I'm not sure what happens after I find my flaws. Maybe they just go away. Maybe another drink will wash 'em out. 

I try to stand up from the sofa, but my legs buckle. Room's spinning, vision won't focus. I reach for a wall to steady myself, but it's not there. Floor is, though. A solid _thud_ later, and I'm laying among the cans. Where I belong.

Guess I'm sleeping on the floor tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First person gets boring after a while. Gotta shake hings up, ya know?


	6. I know, it ends on a cliffhanger, please don't kill me

  
_[You stand alone inside a cavernous room.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=svzLTEQsAjM) The sun streams through the skylight above, casting harsh shadows on the concrete walls and red carpet floor.  
_

_Glass falls endlessly from the ceiling. It looks like rain, glittering as it pours onto the ground._

_Into the blood pooling at your feet._

_Your face... why can't you feel it? You reach up to touch it, but it isn't there._

_You look into the surface of the blood puddle. Your face is gone, replaced by a gaping, lipless mouth and razor sharp teeth._

_Huh. That's new._

_Your attention returns to the ceiling. A massive glass window opens into the swirling void above, lined with jagged glass._

_Like a maw into the abyss._

_You take a step forward, toward the falling glass. It looks so inviting..._

_There's a figure, a man hunched over in the downpour. He kneels, holding his face as shards of glass slice his flesh._

_You walk to him, feeling the 'rain' pierce your skin. There's no pain. Why isn't there pain?_

_You reach the man. He shivers in pain as your shadow covers him._

_You stare down at him. He lifts his head to look at you, expressionless._

_Three empty eye sockets meet your gaze._

_The glass pours down._

_It fills his eyes._

_It fills your mouth._

_Your face._

_Your screen._

_And the blood keeps pooling at your feet._

...

I don't realize that I'm shivering for several minutes after I wake.

The late March evening chills my bones, not helped by the ratty blankets. If I still had teeth, they'd be chattering. Heater must be busted again. Fuck.

I rise, resisting the sheets' meager warmth, and look outside. Seasons are different in Hell. Summer is all dust storms and heatstroke, fall brings a city-sized swarm of locusts, and winter is slush and frozen hobos. Spring is the torrent of rain sloshing against my window. Storms, rain, and the occasional nice day. The city even floods, sometimes. Doesn't mean we get a day off, just that we have to get there sooner.

The good news, it's not flooded yet. The bad, it will be. Some people are already setting up rafts, hoping to get some paying customers. They do this when it floods, and they charge a shitload to ride. What, you gonna swim? Cough it up, pal. Hell, they even make sure that no two rafts have the same route, so they can overcharge all they want. Of course, some like to get sneaky and steal others' customers. Those people tend to get shot more than average.

Either way, I can get to work before then, if I rush. I will my sluggish body to move, to find something warm to wear. My breath is clearly visible in the cold, coming from where my mouth used to be, and the cold soaks through my entire body. One side effect of living on a meal a day, you don't build up much insulation.

A cheap raincoat covers my off-brand work clothes, and I'm out the door. I can't let these clothes get ruined. They're the nicest things I own. 

...

Vox has always seen himself as a fatherly figure to his employees. {Bruce Riley - The Evening Rain} He keeps his workers in line, disciplines them when needed, and gives praise when they don't fuck up _too_ much. He works long hours, pays more than they deserve, and all he asks in return is their complete and undying loyalty. Is that really too much to expect? Today, he paces around one of many conference rooms at VoxCast headquarters, looking over some of his highest-paid (overpaid, really) staff.

"Gentlemen, I won't beat around the bush. Somebody here fucked up."

A freakshow of sub-executives nervously glance around the conference table. Oh, they know what's coming. 

"Mister Argus?"

Joe Argus, Chief of Security. A dozen eyes cover his bulbous blue head, each one avoiding Vox's gaze. Still, the demon's twisted insectoid form snaps upright, rigid with attention. Any more tense, and the poor sod's gonna pull a muscle!

"Yes, sir?"

Vox places a single hand on Argus's shoulder, feeling a suppressed flinch from the lesser man. This part of the job is always the hardest.

"You've always been honest with me. Right?"

Nah. It's the _best._

"Uh- Yes, sir. I have. Always." Bullshit, but he'll get to that. 

"So, I can ask you _anything,_ and you'll answer me truthfully." He doesn't have to drag this out. He doesn't have to watch the man squirm like the cockroach he resembles.

But God damn, is it fucking enjoyable.

"Yes, sir. Uh, to the best of my abilities. Sir."

"So tell me, Joe. What happened to last month's shipment of Intek(tm) Mk3 CCTV cameras? They showed up, they were here, now they... aren't."

Argus tries to look puzzled, like he didn't know _exactly_ what he'd done.

"Well, they're, uh, still being looked into. Probably some clerk misplaced them, right?"

The bug-looking asshole forces a chuckle. Yeah, laugh it up, buddy. It only gets funnier from here.

"Funny thing, Joe. Some of our agents spying on a rival company- not saying it's name- found something interesting." 

Vox's ever-present smile grows even wider. Ooh, he's sweating now. 

"Well, I-"

A clawed hand grabs the back of his head and slams his face into the table, leaving a quarter-sized puddle of blue blood. Vox's smile is gone, replaced by a tight-lipped scowl.

"I wasn't done, Joe. Don't interrupt me again."

No response but a pained whimper. Pathetic.

"You know what that company had just received? It's okay, you can answer."

His voice is hardly more than a whisper in the many-eyed ingrate's ear. Vox has to resist the urge to break out into another grin as the traitor's breathing starts getting faster.

"What did they-"

Vox's fist slams the table, hushing the hapless shitbag. Silence fills the room, broken only by the heavy rain, and the muffled chaos of Pentagram City seven stories below. Finally, he allows himself a smile and murmurs quietly:

"Oh, I think you can guess."

Instantly, Joe Argus cracks, spilling meaningless apologies and excuses like a broken tap.

"It wasn't me, it must have been someone else! How could- I- I swear, I didn't know-"

Vox sighs as dramatically as he can, trying to pretend he isn't enjoying putting some little shit in its place. He motions for two security officers to hold down ol' Joe and get ready to administer some 'discipline.' Thinly veiled joy shows on each of their faces, finally ready to get revenge on their asshole boss. Not yet, boys. Not yet.

"That's the problem, Joe. You didn't know. Knowing things is your _job._ And you know what happens when you don't do your job. Break his arms, boys."

The rest of the executives look on in relief and poorly-masked fear as the sounds of cracking exoskeleton and muffled screams fill the room. It's not their turn on the chopping block, but next time? Who knows? Eventually, the pained moans cease, and Joe hunches quietly in his chair, arms hanging limp. Vox's smile returns in full force as he returns to his seat at the head of the table.

"Now that that's cleared up, let's talk about share prices. Gotta say, I'm not happy!"

But God damn, he _is._

...

I'm on my way from Vox's office, coffee and a cigar in hand. It's almost quiet, high up in Voxcast headquarters. The monotone din of the rainstorm seeps into the halls, accented by the buzz of flickering fluorescent lights. That's the good thing about working night shift. Nobody to bother you. Still not letting my screen wander, though.

I learned something today, listening in on a conversation. Once a year, angels sweep down from Heaven to kill demons, like rain washing away the garbage on the streets. Funny how nobody bothered to tell me. Maybe they assume I already knew. Maybe it's because people don't like to talk about it, they just play it tough and discretely change the subject. Nobody's afraid of the 'extermination,' right? Being afraid is a weakness, just like needing help.

But even in this place, there's a bit of good. It's quiet, I'm not worrying about money, and I have a bottle at home. Hell, maybe another hookup with Nikki later, who knows? I'm almost enjoying myself today.

Then a voice calls out from behind me. Someone's ready to fuck it all up.

"Hey, you. You're Vox's little pet, right?"

It's a calm voice. Not a friendly one, big difference. I torn around to see an ugly motherfucker Not the ugliest motherfucker I've ever seen, but an ugly motherfucker nonetheless. One eye in the center of his face, a snout like a pig, and puke-green skin. Sharp teeth, too, but that's a given in Hell. His sneer says 'better than you,' but his suit says 'middle-management.' 

There's not much around here to be thankful of, but the fact that I'm not him makes the list.

"I-"

"Yeah, you are. I hear you do more than just fetch drinks, right?"

"I, uh, also get cigars, if that's-" 

He snorts, and it's just as hog-like as you'd expect. He steps forward. I step back.

"Funny guy! No. That ain't it. You do more than that, don't you?"

"What-"

"You know, boy, it's rude to interrupt." He produces a cigar and lighter from his shirt pocket. His single, yellow eye stares at me from above a toothy sneer.

"Now, I think you know what I mean. There's rumors about you, boy. We all know something ain't right."

Another step closer. Another step back. A memory stirs in the deep, unwanted, unasked for, unrelenting. _"What do you get, he-heh, when you cross a shitty little tv..."_

"You got a point?" An edge creeps into my voice. Hope it doesn't make things worse.

Another step, and my back's against the wall. _"...With a claw tooth hammer?"_

"Goddamn right." His voice doesn't change, but a single hand goes to his zipper.

Oh, hell no.

"You fucking serious? I'm not-"

And that's when the fight starts.

He swings for my head, almost hits. Vox's coffee spills all over my shirt and burns my skin. Boss's gonna be pissed about that. Another swing, this one connects with my screen. A _crack_ echoes through the hall. Shocked, the pig-looking demon pulls back a hand full of broken knuckles. 

"You... son of a bitch!" Disbelief stains his voice like the coffee on my shirt. Oh, so it's _my_ fault he broke his hand? I almost have time to laugh before he gets me in the gut. I crumple, more from instinct than pain, but barely remain on my feet.

"My fucking hand!" 

Hog-face still has a working fist, and I've never been a heavyweight. Well, I'm fucked. Pun _very much_ not intended. I need a weapon. 

He's coming up for another blow. I barely have time to-

_Crack!_ A '#1 Boss' mug, half-full of alcoholic coffee, shatters against his jaw and sends him stumbling back. 

"No thanks, asshole. I have _standards._ " Was that a one-liner? Huh. Felt kind of good. Like I know what I'm-

But he's faster than he looks, grabbing my throat with a greasy hand and bashing me against the wall. 

"Think you're funny, huh?" 

"You did call me a funny guy." I can barely breathe from his grip, but my speakers still work. Of all the powers in the world, I get to make shitty comebacks without needing to breathe. I'll suffocate laughing, at least.

"Well, maybe I changed my-"

The mug's broken handle, still clenched in my white-knuckled hand, buries itself in his eye socket, and the sound he makes damn near shatters my screen. The pig's undamaged hand goes to his face and I gasp for air. It's the best fucking air I've had all day. 

"You fucking-! My _eye!_ You just-! Fuck!" More stuttering disbelief spills from between his yellow teeth, like blood from his empty socket. He falls to his knees, grasping for the offending handle that sticks out of his face. His rage is gone. In its place, panic. I could almost pity him.

I don't.

My shoe connects with his skull. A sick noise bubbles from his throat as he falls onto his side. Maybe this is too much?

His ribs crack with another kick. A shuddering whimper this time. Well, maybe he should've held his fucking tongue.

His throat collapses. The sound of him choking. Maybe I should keep going, and not be the fucking victim for once. How about that?

His gut. A gasp. How about I smear him all over the fucking carpe-

"Alright, the fuck is going on?"

Oh, shit. Vox's voice. 

I snap to look at him, ready to stomp the pig again and again. How long's he been standing there? Doesn't matter. Pretty sure kicking someone's shit in is against some company policy. I'm fucking fired.

"Uh- self-defense. I swear. Sir." Homelessness won't be so bad. I can make a barrel-fire, right?

"Yeah, whatever, pal. Where's my _coffee?_ " Arms crossed, leaning on a wall, Vox looks more annoyed than anything else.

"He, um, spilled it, sir. That's why I, you know..." The pig gives a wheeze, and a little blood spurts from his nostril. It's as good of a confession as he can manage, I'm sure.

He looks at me.

I look at him.

"And let me guess, _he_ broke the mug?"

"...Yes."

His face slowly stretches into a cruel grin as he grips my shoulder. This is it. I'm screwed.

"Taking initiative! Good on you, sport! Go get the janitor. And get me a shot of whiskey." Did... I just get away with this?

He starts to walk off, but pauses.

"Oh, one more thing." He turns back to me, still wearing that trademark grin.

"Let anybody spill _this_ one, and you're done for, pumpkin."

Then he leaves.

And I'm just standing there.

Like a fucking champion.

...

[ _After work, at a dingy general store in one of the few non-flooded parts of the city._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=55TD9gnMt3Y&list=PLc2cPcjGnGygE3tYht1MgtXuq9OV01DmG&index=86&t=0s)

Instant noodles, beer, and high explosives. Typical shopping list for Hell's everyday bachelor.

The shelves are barely stocked, full of damaged packaging and disappointment. Dented cans of food sit alongside boxes of ammunition and containers of paint thinner. The harsh lights flicker over the mid-70s wallpaper (peeling) and the puke-green tile floors (cracked). 

"Ey, ya see any aluminum powder? I ain't grindin' that shit myself."

Nikki's here, too. The big guy's out picking up ammo, guess he knows a vendor that gives him a discount. Good for him.

"Nah, ask an employee."

"Las' one didn't even talk to me. Jus' flipped me off. Prick."

We wouldn't bother paying if there weren't more guards here than customers. Is that fucked up? I'm getting used to crime. First, I stole a computer (now known as my 'wife') from the Voxcast IT dept, but my boss is a dick so it evens out. Then all that mayhem with Utyug and Nikki, but that's mostly petty vandalism and stuff. It always felt at least a little wrong before, but now? Nothing. Well, I guess it's not 'crime' if there's no law. Except tax evasion. That's a big one.

"Is it near the 'hazardous' section? I already checked the chemical dept."

"Yeah, but it's in those little 'build your own bomb' kits. I ain't payin' for one a' those."

Everything's for sale in Hell, my friend, _everything._ If the shop owner had a sister, he'd sell her too. Hard drugs, heavy weapons, slaves, they're all available. And all overpriced.

"Do they at least have iron oxide?"

"Ya mean rust? Just scrape it off a car, dumbass!"

Explosives are a bit new to me. If you, dear reader, are some kind of serial arsonist who knows about this stuff, please be patient with my incompetence.

"Hey, they got some half-price weed. Wanna pick some up?"

"Stay away from it, buddy. Shit's half price for a reason."

I wander around, looking for the stuff. Aisle 12, narcotics. Aisle 13, small arms. Aisle 14, frozen goods. Aisle 15, creepy fucking eyes that stare at you from the walls. Jesus, even after months in this infernal shithole, I'm still not used to those.

"Don't stare. Bad luck if ya do." A hand lightly touches my shoulder, and I almost jump out of my skin.

" _Gyah,_ fuck! Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"Sorry." She doesn't look sorry.

"Fuck's up with those eyes, anyway? Are they watching us?" I wave my hand in front of one, and its gaze follows. I swear I can hear some kind of gurgling from behind the cheap wooden panels. What. The. Fuck.

"Eh, they say that's just Big Luci's way of spyin' on us all. Dunno if it's true, wouldn't surprise me." She leans on an aisle and nonchalantly lights a cig.

"Lucifer... spies on us?" Every time I shit-talked Hell's government springs back into my brain. Shit, am I going to the gulag? Does Hell even _have_ gulags? Nikki suppresses a chuckle.

"Sorta. He don't give a shit about losers like us, jus' the high-ups. Vox, Valentino, n' what's-his-name, the snake guy. Those types, ya know?" 

Then she puts an arm around my waist, and pulls me close. Fuck, it's good. It's almost enough to get me to forget that Hell's rulers are *watching us right now.*

"But you don't, like, see a problem with that? They're fucking _spying on us._ " Should I lower my voice? Do the walls have ears, too?

"Ey, chill out! Ya get used to em. That's just how is works down here."

"Thought you were supposed to be a rebel." She just sighs and takes a drag.

"Some things ain't gonna change, no matter how hard ya fight. Sorry Screenboy."

Shit. Can't argue with that.

"So... they gonna know about us buying explosives?" I don't know what kinds of contacts Vox's security has. Better play it safe, right? She looks at me like I sprouted another head.

"Explosives? We're makin' thermite, remember?"

"Uh, what's the difference?"

She bursts into a laugh so hard she almost drops her cig.

"You're sucha' dumbass, Screenboy."

I'd be insulted, if she weren't holding me like that. She checks her phone and sighs.

"Big guy's late. Where the fuck is he?"

...

"5.56, .45, and .22. Box of each. All I need."

Russian isn't Utyug's first language. Neither is Polish. But he can get a point across. If someone else doesn't understand him, tough shit.

"It's on reserve. Big client. Go somewhere else."

The squat, reptilian shopkeeper glares back from a face full of mismatched eyes. He speaks Russian fluently, but in simple sentences, as if speaking to a child. He must think Utyug is stupid. Good, let the fat bastard underestimate him.

"No. We have deal."

It's simple, or at least it was. Utyug brings stolen goods to the store. Sells them for modest price. Then gets all the ammo he needs at heavy discount.

"Fuck the deal."

Perhaps he should have pushed for cash, instead.

"No time for horseshit. We. Have. Deal." He towers over the merchant, jamming a clawed, scarred finger into the worn counter with each word. Nikki and her little 'friend' have been waiting too long already. And they still need ammo. 

"Utyug! Jesteś spóźniony!" 

So she got sick of waiting, hm? And she brought that tv-head. 

Utyug surveys the room. Not many guards. All unaware, and none speak Polish. Numbers aren't on their side, but surprise is. He glances at his American ally, assessing her combat readiness. Two hands are jammed in her coat pockets, two arms hidden away. A nice surprise for some hapless guards. Her 'friend' stands still, seemingly oblivious, nothing but brief flashes of static on his screen. Nikki's 'friends' are hit or miss when it comes to combat. This new one might be a liability, might be an asset. Today they find out. 

"Nikki, zmiana planów."

Utyug's tone remains indifferent as ever as he snaps out his pistol and puts a round through the shopkeep's face. Should've kept the deal, buddy.

["Rabunek."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W_5unoZTpoQ)


End file.
